Chapter 5. The Bargin

I step up onto the closed toilet seat.

The porcelain clicks faintly under my weight, steady but… uneasy.
Like it's remembering a time it shattered.

I balance carefully.
My hand presses lightly against the wall beside the mounted fish.

And then I see it.

There’s a window.

I hadn’t noticed before—
Positioned high, nearly at ceiling level.
Just wide enough to fit a shoulder through, maybe an arm.

Thin metal bars run vertical across the opening.
Sturdy. Tight.
Just enough to remind me I’m not leaving that way.

But still—
Air.

Outside.

It’s dark beyond the pane.
A murky black, deep as pond water at night.
But not empty.

Bushes.

Bushes, thick and overgrown, crowd against the frame like they’re trying to push in.

And there—
the faintest hint of green.

Real color.

Alive.

A contrast so sharp against the bathroom’s gray that it hums in the corner of my vision.

‘That’s not supposed to be there.’

By all logic, the shack was ground level.

But here?
This window is at shoulder height,
and the dirt outside is even higher.

A buried floor?

A glitch in the world?

Or is the ground just rising, slow and deliberate, trying to cover me?

‘Another question for another time.’

‘Right now… it’s still Glub’s turn.’

I stare at Glub’s unblinking plastic eyes.
His mouth gapes, perfectly still.

The button is in there.

Somewhere.

I extend my left hand.

‘This is a mistake.’

But I do it anyway.

His gullet is wide—surprisingly so.
Wider than it should be.
The gap stretches just enough to take my entire hand, knuckles scraped past his warped gums.

His head is only a foot across,
but the depth is… wrong.

Inside—

Wet.

Not plastic.
Not hollow shell.
Wet.

And not warm.
Clammy.
Fish cold.

It feels like I’m sliding my arm into a corpse half-thawed from the freezer.

The interior is soft at first.
Too soft.
Then—suddenly dense.

The texture changes in layers:

A ring of gelatinous folds

Followed by a wall of nubbly cartilage

Then slime, thicker than soup

I try not to gag.

Then—

Teeth.

Not just a bite-ready jaw.

Lining the throat.

Tiny. Rigid. Sharp like baby shark teeth.
Dozens.
Maybe hundreds, set in soft tissue like bone pebbles waiting to chew.

They don’t clamp.
They just graze.

Light scrapes on my arm, like fingernails tapping in warning.

My fingers twitch.

And something twitches back.

Something moves against my wrist.

Small. Fast.
Something with legs.

Tiny legs.

Like a spider, but wetter.
Eight maybe—maybe more.

It scuttles across my knuckles.
Then vanishes deeper.

I choke on the bile rising in my throat.

‘What the hell is this…?’

‘What IS this thing?’

And still, Glub doesn’t move.
His head stays mounted, mouth wide,
like a trap waiting for guilt.

I’m past my wrist now.
Half my forearm.
Now the elbow—

And still, it goes deeper.

It’s hot now.
Unnaturally so.

The further I reach, the more the temperature climbs,
until I feel like I’m elbow-deep in a boiler room—

Sweat prickling along my neck.
My arm burns against the slick lining.

‘This isn’t a fish.’

‘This was never a fish.’

Deeper.
The heat builds.
The slick turns tight around the elbow.
The throat of Glub pulses, muscles twitching like a living hallway.

My fingers brush something—

And then it hits me.

Not pain.
Not touch.

A memory.

I’ve done this before.

Not here.
Not like this.

But—

A Holokon girl.
INGY’s niece, maybe.
She had something in her throat—

A candy.
Wrapper still on.
Minty, red-striped, barely sucked.

She clutched my legs, panicking,
tiny fingers digging into my knees.
Tears streaked down her cheeks in straight lines,
too clean for such a messy moment.

I remember bending down.
Saying something soft.
The others chuckled, watching from the table.

“Oh look, he’s playing Dad again.”

I reached in.
Gentle.

She gagged a little,
and her tongue curled up my arm,
coiling around it instinctively.

“Involuntary kiss reflex,” someone joked.

The memory was warm.

Then—white-hot pain.

STAB.

Deep in the hand.

“SHIT!—OWTCH—!”

The inside of Glub’s throat clenches.

Something has hooked me.

I jerk back—

But it’s lodged.
Metal. Sharp. Buried.

And then I hear it—

Glub laughs.

No fanfare.
No tinny trumpet.

Just a deep, thick, guttural chuckle
rising from inside the walls of the shack.

He’s enjoying this.

I rip my arm back.

The throat scrapes me raw.
Teeth rake across skin,
but they barely register over the true pain.

I tumble off the toilet seat and land hard against the floor, hand first.

I stare at it.

Covered in slime,
dark streaks between every knuckle,
up to the elbow, dripping into my lap.

And there—pinched neatly into the purlicue—
right in that soft groove between thumb and index—

A fish hook.

Tiny.
Silver.
Barbed.

The kind you use for catch-and-release.

It’s embedded just deep enough to hurt,
but clever enough to keep the blood sealed inside.

No drip.
No trail.

The hook is a cork.

“AAAAAAHHAHAHAHHH~!”

Glub is howling now.

Rattling in his frame.
Mouth flapping wildly,
as if he’d just told the funniest joke in the underworld.

-------

I groan.

Low.
Heavy.
Through clenched teeth and a throat full of old air.

The hook throbs in my hand.
Still lodged between thumb and finger.
A tiny anchor, humming with ache.

I look up—

And Glub is staring.

His mouth hangs loose.
Unhinged like a broken puppet.
But his eyes are sharp now.

Too sharp.

There are teeth in that grin.
Teeth that weren’t there before.

Plastic had given way to bone.
Rows of jagged, mismatched fangs.

“YOU,” Glub declares,
“ARE A DEAD STELLA CRONUS.”

The name hits something.
Familiar—but distorted, like a reflection in boiling water.

“THE WORLD IS NOT YOURS, MORTAL… but—hehe.”

His jaw snaps shut with a sharp clack.
Then—

He clears his throat.

And goop flies from his lips,
spattering the wall beside the toilet in long ropes of black flem.

“MY BARGAIN…”

He drools the word.
Savoring it.

Then the music begins.

And my soul dies a little more.

He flops violently against the wooden plaque he’s bolted to.
The whole frame trembles.

And out of his bloated mouth comes:

“OOGA-CHAKA OOGA-OOGA
OOGA-CHAKA OOGA-OOGA”

“NO.”

‘No no no no no—’

It’s unmistakable.

"Hooked on a Feeling."
Blue Swede.
1974.

The cursed bass begins to sing it.

Flopping.
Twitching.
Groaning out every damn word with passion.

“I CAN’T STOP THIS FEELING
DEE-EEP INSIDE OF ME…”

“GIRL, YOU JUST DON’T REALIZE
WHAT YOU DO TO MEEEE—!”

And then it gets worse.

Because—

The plants.

The vines in the shower.

They begin to move.

—

Left.
Right.

Left.
Right.

Sharp. Twitching choreography, synchronized like twisted cheerleaders possessed by disco demons.

‘This is hell.’

‘This is actual hell.’

‘I’m going to die in a bathroom rave hosted by a sentient fish.’

Glub continues to belt it out,
his voice slipping between mechanical static and far-too-human growls.

The vines slap against the glass with every “OOGA-CHAKA”.